


He's a Fool, You're Just As Well (Hope It Gives You Hell)

by Edwardina



Category: Glee
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S2 coda: Dave Karofsky hates Sam Evans for a lot of reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's a Fool, You're Just As Well (Hope It Gives You Hell)

**Author's Note:**

> An anon asked me for introspective Karofsky fic dealing with his attraction to Sam and his butt, even though Sam kind of hates him. Anon, I hope this is kind of what you wanted, 'cause it just wrote itself. It arcs over much of S2. Title from "Gives You Hell." But you knew that already.

There were at least twenty other guys who would've liked to be quarterback, but the position went to the new kid.

It only figured. He looked like one of those guys who had it all for some unfair reason. He'd given try-outs his all, and everything, and had been welcomed onto the team without much dissent, but still, it was just so easy for him, it rankled, and Dave didn't know why it did so much, except he was the new kid, just a sophomore, and he looked like – a freaking joke.

He looked like no other guy in the school looked or had ever looked, to Dave's memory. It was ridiculous. He blended in about as much as Hummel, only he was the opposite of that pale little nancy boy fairy in every way.

It was that hair. That blond, blond hair. It made him stick out even when he was just sitting there stupidly on the bench staring blankly. He shook it out of his eyes and messed with it and yeah, they all got the point, pretty boy.

It was the body. It wasn't a Lima body. They didn't make them like that here. He didn't know where Evans had come from, but it was obviously from someplace where tots weren't one of the major food groups. Tendons stood out in the guy's arms when he was lifting weights. He had abs like some douchewad in a music video or Super Extreme Swiss Ball DVD infomercial.

And it was his messed up face. His round fish eyes and – anyone would have said this, any guy on the team, any guy in the world – big fat blowjob lips. Oh, come on. That's what they were. Dave didn't even look at the guy much but when he did Evans always seemed to be pressing them together like he didn't want anyone to notice how huge they were. It made it so hard to take the plays Evans relayed in the huddle seriously. Dave forgot them half the time.

He was glad when the kid got sacked. It might've meant Hudson was QB again but Hudson, he could deal with.

What happened with Hummel... he could deal with. He had it under control. It was just a nightmare he couldn't shake; that didn't mean it was real. Whatever. It had never happened.

And he could deal with those glee clubbers, invading the football team (even the wheelchair kid) and all stepping up for their butt buddy – it shouldn't have been a shock that Evans was the real white knight of the bunch, but it still kinda was. He'd heard Hudson was the one living with Hummel in his homo lair. They probably just put on makeup and dressed in drag all day and sang show tunes and... whatever else flaming homos did. Hudson, yeah, he could deal with. Azimio would've had his back.

But it was Evans who got Dave's back. He smashed it into the lockers, stupid blond boy band hair in his eyes that were burning fierce out of nowhere, and without padding on, it hurt to get body-checked like that. He'd thrown Evans across the room into the other lockers, thinking, _Did Hummel tell him? Does he know? His shoulder, I'll dislocate his shoulder again, I'll mess up that pretty face._

It was over before it had even begun though. The Beiste had kept Dave from full-on kicking his ass. But oh man, it had been satisfying to see Evans shuffling around the halls over the next few days with a red ring around one eye. It put a pit in Dave's stomach, but that was probably just because those few weeks had become a lost cause; he failed every test he had in almost every class and couldn't concentrate on his homework. The only thing that seemed real was Evans bluntly glaring daggers at him every time they passed. The shiner went from red to an ugly purple tinged with sick yellow-green.

Then on Monday it was gone. So was Hummel.

Evans stopped speaking to him. Evans didn't even look at him.

It wasn't like they were buddies in the first place, but it was like a hostile wall of ice had shot up between them, palpable. Dave felt like the whole team knew he hated Evans and Evans hated him. Even though no one said anything, he knew the ice was there and he knew everyone else knew it too, and went around it so they wouldn't slip in it. Evans basically treated him like he didn't exist, so Dave did the same.

He felt weird and didn't sleep good. Even Christmas sucked.

Evans hardly even looked at him when Beiste kicked off 2011 by flipping her lid and making the entire football team join the glee club. But whatever; they already sat in the same locker room and used the same showers pretending the other wasn't even there. Dave dragged himself to Schuester's zombie camp and intensive freaking _dance rehearsals_ and stared balefully at the back of Evans' head. He'd always known Hudson really went for this stuff, but as it turned out – Evans wasn't so hot at it.

"No, dude. Left, go left," Hudson kept having to tell him.

Left? There was too much left going on with Evans. He had two left feet. He might as well have had six left feet. How was it Evans could even run the plays Beiste gave him if he couldn't even remember which way to turn in a stupid dance routine? It got so annoying that Dave pined to yank Evans by the collar and yell, _LEFT IS THE OTHER WAY, YOU MORON!_

Chang dealt with it. Dave watched him drill Evans, shouting lyrics in a tone-deaf way and peppering them with "Lean! Zombie lean! Two, three, four, the way she looked!" Whatever he did, it seemed to work, only then, Evans started messing up at a totally different point in the song. He whirled around and ran right into Dave, bouncing off him with the force of the both of them going at full-tilt. Evans stumbled back like he'd collided with a brick wall, hit Hudson, and almost knocked them both over, but Dave snatched him by the arm to keep him from going all the way down.

Schue blew the whistle someone had been stupid enough to give him.

"Sorry," said Evans.

"Next time," said Dave. It was the kind of thing the football guys who had the decency not to also be glee guys had taken to saying to each other to keep morale up. _Looking good, buddy. Dance them pants off. Ooh, Chris Brown up in here! Run it again, bro. Azimio, you got the moves, dude. You're like Black Swan, all crazy!_

Evans just looked glum.

Coach and Schue threw them a pizza party in the choir room after. It was kind of hilarious to see all the guys wearing the exact same thing, without any numbers to mark them off, just rotting faces, grinning and stuffing themselves with pizza. They automatically arranged themselves according to how they'd been placed in the dance number, so Dave sat next to Evans, balancing his paper plate on one leg and nervously jiggling the other.

Every guy, including Dave, had at least four slices of various pizzas. Evans had one slice and spent ten minutes blotting it with napkins. Then he ate about half of it. He was silent most of the party, but he gave wheelchair kid and Chang high fives when it was time to go, then came over and gave several more to other football guys, including Azimio and Dave. He looked Dave in the face as the high five slid into a brief handshake. With his face still covered in zombie makeup he looked totally weird and inscrutable.

Dave clapped his elbow, and Evans said, "I'll have the turns by tomorrow."

He did.

When football season was over Evans pretty much dropped out of his field of vision – except for a weird week where he wore this purple hoodie and sneakers like it was Halloween and he was going as Justin Bieber every day. Sometimes Dave saw him in the cafeteria with the glee dorks; sometimes Santana Lopez was sitting on his knee, feeding him carrot sticks one by one in a stupid lovesick fashion. Man, that girl loved jocks.

Spring came and Evans stopped getting haircuts. Lopez lead him down the hall, looking like she was dragging a reluctant kid by the hand. Once he passed them by and heard her saying, "No. Nuh-uh. You are not wearing a belt with studs on it. Why do you even have this. Take it off right now."

"What if my pants fall down?"

Dave had slowed down and looked over his shoulder so he could see what was going on.

"Big deal, unless you're wearing pink boxers with little rainbows on them, in which case I will literally steal someone else's belt for you to cinch around them scrawny little hips."

Evans let Lopez take his astronomy book and Trapper Keeper while he pulled his layered t-shirts up and obediently unbuckled his belt. It did have studs on it. It was black leather and had silver studs on it like some goth kid would wear. Evans slid it from his loops and handed it to Lopez. She made a face at it, then said, "Good boy. Now don't let mama catch you wearing anything Bedazzled, okay? Kiss my cheek and be off."

Evans did as he was told, then turned and watched his girlfriend go, blowing his hair up out of his eyes with his big fat dumb lips. Dave stood watching him pull his shirts back down. It wasn't weird or anything. He'd seen Evans with a lot less on in the locker room. And he didn't know what was wrong with Lopez. Evans wasn't exactly scrawny. He was pushing six feet and looked like one of those squeaky-clean Disney stars, except buff.

"Something interesting, Karofsky?" Evans piped up, catching Dave mid-stare.

"Woman troubles?" Dave asked.

"What are you saying?" Evans asked thickly, looking pissed. Dave kept staring – so Evans was on the offensive, so what. What else was new.

"Trouble in paradise?" Dave rephrased, holding his own and narrowing his eyes. "Looks like someone's getting the belt tonight, huh, Evans?"

"It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again," said Evans in a weird voice. Then he abruptly walked off, tucking his books under his arm.

"Freak!" Dave muttered. He didn't know what else to say.

He thought about Evans all of a sudden that night, when he was unbuckling his belt. It was like the rote action of doing so left him wide-open for a flood of unwelcome thoughts, a mish-mash of mental imagery: studs; a studded belt; the pit of a back, all weirdly tan; jeans that fit too snug, too perfect, hugging ass; scrawny hips that weren't scrawny but cut, freaking cut, getting flashed in the hall. Dave yanked his belt off in a few deliberate tugs, blinking and batting the images back with a half-assed push. It was like trying to swat at a fly. They just came back once he realized more firmly what he'd been thinking about. Stuff he wasn't even aware he'd ever seen or remembered welled up quickly. No gay pink boxers – American Eagle briefs, navy blue, plain gray, and once or twice, big bold sky blue stripes evened out with green and white. Evans left his jeans hugging around the round underside of his ass after he tugged 'em up, then he paused to put on deodorant before yanking his shirt on and finishing the job. Why? _Why_ did he do that? Did he _want_ guys to stare at his ass? Did he want everyone to check out how totally freaking round and perfect it was? 

Even Dave knew that he should be thinking about Lopez instead of Evans. Shouldn't that be... kind of hot? She'd made him stop and take his belt off in the middle of the hallway – she'd practically humiliated him, dissing it and making him undress, technically, and then taking it from him. If that had happened to Dave he would've been mortified and protested and only done it if Lopez had threatened to break up with him. But, he guessed if he was Evans he wouldn't exactly have any compunction with showing off his abs... 

Ugh, see, it was the dude, _the dude_ he was thinking about, not the girl.

He didn't feel like shucking his jeans off all of a sudden, or even unbuttoning his shirt. Slapping his bedroom light off, he shrouded himself in darkness (except for a few glow-in-the-dark stars and planets that had been on the walls and ceiling of his room since he was like eight and hadn't gotten covered up with posters of the Red Wings or Taylor Swift) and collapsed into bed.

It only vaguely helped to pull his pillow over his head and pretend that he was smothering himself beyond thought. In the extreme darkness and silence his mind practically groped for those thoughts, and Dave crushed the pillow to his face with both arms. If he was going to think these things, at least he was going to think them into his pillow and not succumb to them in the comfort of pajamas, which were too easy to... get into.

Probably wherever he was, a guy like Evans slept in that stupid striped twink porn underwear. A guy like Evans who only ate a few bites of pizza and let his girlfriend do all the thinking for him was probably just dicking around right now, blissfully untroubled, not dwelling on stuff he'd seen in the locker room, no overwhelming thoughts about the school fairy bothering him either way. A guy like Evans was probably... maybe... pushing his hand into his tight little American Eagle briefs and grabbing his own dick, knuckles pushing up the clingy cotton, making the crotch bulge...

Oh, God, no. He really wasn't. Evans was, like, into that promise ring celibacy club crap.

Only didn't that make it totally obvious that he wasn't getting laid, wasn't having any kind of sex at all with Santana Lopez, who gave it up to every dude she got with? Wouldn't that just make it even more likely that he'd be stuck with getting himself off – licking those ridiculous lips all over while he shut his eyes and played with his dick and thought about tits or God or whatever?

Even though he was epically hard in his jeans and it was uncomfortable, Dave passed out eventually, safe under his pillow, safe because he hadn't jacked off thinking about another guy and hadn't even let himself get comfortable enough for the weakness of mind to take over him totally.

It was kind of weird the next time he saw Sam Evans wandering the halls, still looking lost and confused even though it was March already.

But it was all fine. Dave had a handle on it.

Evans wore a shirt that was too small and rode up his back as he sat in the cafeteria, playing with a bag of Doritos, and the strip of elastic that said American Eagle just visible between his shirt and jeans didn't freak Dave out at all.

Evans hugged Quinn Fabray for like five freaking minutes after school and buried his nose in her hair like a pathetic puppy. He was still in love with her? Whatever.

Evans got detention for being late to homeroom more than three times; he eased into the seat at the one empty table in detention, right in front of Dave and Azimio. Coach Sylvester was running it that day and said, "What's the ish, fish-face? Short bus not run where you live?" Evans just shook his head, opened his math book, and fell asleep on his own arm ten minutes later. Dave defaced pictures in his history book.

Evans bent over the same water fountain every day and spent a good minute audibly gulping down water, when almost no one in the whole school used the water fountains at all, preferring to bring or buy bottled water. He wound up dripping water down the front of whatever shirt he was wearing. Dave hardly noticed.

Then one day Santana Lopez asked Dave out: "How's life, David? Listen, I know I've threatened to slice you up like sashimi and also go all Nutcracker on you, but I've been thinking about your nuts, and see, they're way too stellar, and, I dunno... blue for me to do any real damage to. So I want you to know, I've changed my mind and I think you're super-dreamy and that you and I need to take it to the next level. So how's about you buy me coffee and we discuss our new-found love further?"

And again, Dave, standing there still, halfway through pulling his jacket from his locker, knew the first thing he should've thought about was Santana – he was apparently next on her checklist after Puckerman and Hudson and he didn't even know how many other guys – but the first thing he thought of was Sam Evans.

"What's wrong with Evans?" was the first thing he said.

Lopez smiled at him. "Oh, you would ask that, wouldn't you? Wow, you're so sensitive. I really don't know how I didn't see it before."

She gave Dave's arm a squeeze, as if testing his muscle to see if he was up to snuff, batting her eyelashes up at him.

"Nothing's wrong with Sammy Bieber. He does have the most Red Delicious apple bottom I have ever seen in my life, and yes, his lips are luscious and perfect and made for sucking," Lopez continued in a slow, raspy drawl. Dave blinked. "He just doesn't have that... x-factor."

It was a full thirty seconds before Dave recovered enough wits to ask, "And I do?"

"Oh, yeah," said Santana. "I'm more certain than ever you do."

"Cool," said Dave.

He didn't care when Sam Evans clearly started pummeling the crap out of him in his own imagination.

It served him right.


End file.
